Heaven Above
by RockinJanelle
Summary: Finally he was dying. He didn't plan on dying alone, though. Final part in trilogy, so please read "Silent Night" and "In Remembrance" before reading this! PG-13


**Title: **"Heaven Above  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_~4,700_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong><br>A/N: GUH. I hate writing sometimes. This would be one of those days.**

**Anyway, hey! It's the final part in my trilogy! The first part is "Silent Night", then "In Remembrance". You should probably read THOSE fics first BEFORE you read this one. Otherwise, you won't understand it.**

**I...like it? I kind of broke my own heart when writing this one, as I find myself thinking about the afterlife a lot (you'll notice it's a common theme in my fics, I'm sorry), and it's one of the times where I show what I want to happen in the afterlife personally. I don't know, judge me.**

**Enjoy!**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

Finally, he was dying.

After almost 20 years of waiting and waiting, he was finally going to die. He wondered if he was waiting for this day—just because—or if he was tired of hearing the same news day in and day out: "You have a heart problem." "Your heart is failing." "You have a bad heart." "You don't have much longer to live." "The longest you have is six months." After a while, it started to wear him down. _"You should take better care of yourself. I don't want you dying on me." _And it was nearing the end of his six months, something he had marked on the calendar: the day Mycroft Holmes dies.

The nurse had given him painkillers, enough where it would last until he passed on. She told him it would slowly seep into his system throughout the course of the day, knowing full well that it could be a potential overdose. So many lines hooked up to his wretched body, so many machines drowning everything in so many monotonous tones—it was annoying. But he knew he didn't have much longer. Give him a few hours and he'd be gone. And he did not want anyone to visit him in his final hours—as if anyone would show. Sherlock was gone with John to Sussex, together until the end. He had no one else, no one besides his secretary. And maybe that's why he wanted to die.

"Sir," his secretary whispered. For those twenty long years, he wondered why this woman stayed by his side, even when his health started to decline. Ah, he remembered how she reacted to him clasping his chest the first time it started to hurt. It was eight years ago, and all she did was lie him on his back and call for an ambulance. And when he was through countless surgeries, she never ceased to falter and give up on his power. She still made an effort to make it known that Mycroft Holmes was still powerful. Truly a remarkable woman. "Is there anything I can do for you?" He wanted to say so many things, but they'd already been said throughout the years. _"Can I help you?"_ Or, they were unspoken wishes that could never be fulfilled. Most of the time, it was the latter.

He tilted his head over to the woman by his bedside. She still looked as young as ever—the last time he looked in the mirror, he had wrinkles across his face, tired eyes, and a partial receding hairline. Not to mention the pale skin he had grown to see when staring at the dull eyes that held every secret that he could hold. _"You might not think you're attractive, but to me you are. That should matter."_ He smiled. "I think opening the window at this time of the year would be nice, don't you think?"

"Of course, sir," she whispered. As he listened to the clicking of her heels against the floorboard, he looked up at the dull ceiling he had familiarized with for years. He memorized every bump, crack, and paint chip that was there, like it mattered to him. There was nothing else to look at in a home when you were stuck being alone. _"It's awful lonely when you're gone, you know that?" _And there was nothing to look at besides the ceiling when all you had was an empty bed to rest upon. Suddenly, a small, cool autumnal breeze scattered through the room. He could feel how his fingertips shivered at the touch of the air, but he did not hide them. She turned back to him. "Is this enough for you, sir?"

He smiled. Had it been enough in his life? He would not ponder such a question—he had done that enough. "Yes, thank you, dear," he whispered. He closed his eyes and listened to the clicking of the heels again. His hope was growing, but he knew it would die off. _"Are you awake, Mycroft?" _It'd be her when he opened his eyes again. So when he did, he saw a pair of young eyes staring back. He did a quick nod, and she understood. She graced him with her hand for a quick moment—he hated the feel. It didn't feel right, as though there was a shift in time and space at that moment because of their touch.

"Then may you rest with ease tonight, sir," she understood. _"Goodnight, Mycroft." _He felt her hand quickly disappear. The wind wrapped around his tired hand, filling his fingertips with the cold air once more. The clicking of the heels grew away, inching more and more toward the door. He just looked up at the ceiling until it was gone. When he heard the click of the door echo in his room, he knew the truth.

He, though, was dying alone.

He hadn't planned that to happen. He wanted to die with someone by his side, telling him to wait for them in the afterlife—if there was an afterlife (still, that did not frighten the mighty Mycroft Holmes). He never wanted to die alone, or be the last to die in a partnership. Imagine, seeing your partner die months before you did, or maybe a few years. He, though, had the pleasure of seeing his pass almost twenty years prior. A life that he lived, one he did not want to live through.

Mycroft turned his head to the window, scanning the room one little bit at a time. He had lived at the flat since he was enlisted in the government, years and years ago. It had, of course, changed when time was changing, but it was still his. _"Don't you think we should get a bigger place?"_ He thought about it, especially twenty years ago. Could he live in the same place where the life had died? He seemed to manage, although at times there were problems. One week after the funeral, for example, he had to clean the last thing his partner used: a tea cup. It ended with a shattered cup with old tea dripping down the wall.

He brought his attention to the wardrobe, the closet that held everything together. His suits were crammed into the closet, as the other clothing didn't deserve to see the light of day. The last time he saw the other clothing, it was four years ago, when he pulled a suit from the closet and saw one of the sleeves peek out from the back. _"What do you think about this shirt? It's nice, yeah?" _When he grabbed the sleeve, it was cold, but still felt like he still occupied the shirt. Mycroft didn't wear that suit that day, and shoved it back where it belonged. He never wore that suit again.

He then looked to the bedroom door. Every night, he'd hear nothing but silence fall inside his home. The clocks would tick, the outside noises would flitter and flutter, but there was not a sound to be sung inside his home besides his own breathing. _"How would you know if I snored? You're never here." _He could barely sleep when there was this much silence. So every night, he'd stare out at the bedroom door, maybe for thirty minutes, maybe for two hours, just staring. Every shadow that crossed the path of the light would make him believe in hope—but then his hope faded three years after.

Nothing else mattered in the room he had to die in, except the bed and nightstand opposite to his side. On the nightstand rested a watch, a lamp, and a little grandfather clock that always ticked away. Mycroft loved the little clock, it was very charming. The watch had stopped working eighteen years ago, when Mycroft decided to leave it where it was, in case he returned. _"I never go anywhere without my watch." _Suddenly, he pushed himself off of his back and slowly moved toward the nightstand. And when he put his hand on the untouched side of the bed, he looked down.

He never looked at the bed from above since the funeral; it was always at night, to the side. He never realized how empty the bed had been since it was last inhabited, and he brushed over the blankets. He always remembered seeing his partner from his side, just seeing his back, but when he was above, he remembered staring at those bold, tired eyes and kissing those lips he fell for since the first kiss. _"I love you, Mycroft." _Even in his old age, he could still remember how his partner breathed through the night, sleeping like a little baby.

Mycroft was too weak and could not support himself on his wrists, so he fell to his elbows. He brushed a hand over the cold, fairly new looking pillow that Mycroft always found uncomfortable. But he remembered who had been lying on the pillow, whose grey hair he always looked for in a crowded place, and brushed it softly against his fingertips. He remembered how it felt to brush against someone's head and stare lovingly into another's eyes.

Oh, how he missed him so, even after twenty years. Not a day went by when Mycroft Holmes didn't think about his partner, and some would suggest that it was his biggest weakness. No, it made him stronger, made him the powerful man he became for Britain, even after his heart started to fail. _"One day, you'll run Britain with an iron fist. And you'll forget all about me."_ His lips started to tremble, his hand started to grab at the pillow, searching for the lost soul that was once there. He could feel his chest start to hurt, his heart start to pump faster and faster for more air, and he fell back on his side of the bed again, staring at the same ceiling. He breathed in, trying to calm himself down, but nothing was working. He was dying.

The breeze picked up again. "Ah," he whispered. It sounded more like a wheezing cough than anything else, but he knew what he was saying. The monitors next to him started to slow down again, his breathing under control. To the clock on the nightstand, it took thirty-three seconds. To the watch, he wasted no time at all. "So you've decided to see me die, have you?" The wind swirled through the room and sent shivers through his spine. "I don't blame you. I saw you die," he remarked. The scene never left his mind, the voice he heard, the last line he'd hear from him. "Although, now your grave will not be littered with roses every week, as I have been the only visitor this whole time. I am terribly sorry," his voice began to break. For his whole life, he never missed a week of visiting the grave. It'd always be at night, so the two could watch the sunset together, just like they planned to do the next time they could watch it.

"I would have placed roses every day, if I could have. Oh, you would've loved them," he turned his head away and stared at the empty side of the bed, tears in his eyes. _"How did you know red and yellow roses were my favorites?" _Mycroft frowned. "Never had I a day when you were not there." When he moved his hand over the sheets on the bed, he felt the wind tickle the inside of his fingers. "Look at me, my final thoughts will be about you. You must think I'm a fool for have spent my time never forgetting you. Not a day went by," he repeated. He moved his head back, staring at the ceiling. "How could I forget when you were all I thought about when alive and well? How can you forget about the man you love?" _"I hope you don't plan on falling in love with someone else. I plan to keep you all to myself, Mycroft."_

Mycroft took another deep breath, but felt his chest start to push down again. Another breeze went through the room and he closed his eyes. He was tired. It was too much for him to continue to hear his voice echo in his head (it had been a constant thing since his beloved died, something Mycroft learned to live with, since everything reminded him of his partner). He took a few small gasps through his mouth, soaking in as much fresh air as he could. But it hurt to breathe, so he slowed his gasps down, listening to the grandfather clock tick away. Then, the ticking slowed down, and he was fast asleep.

From there, he started to dream, but somehow, he knew it would be the last time he'd be dreaming. After that, it would be living. At first, it was a bright light flashing before his eyes. He thought he was going to see his life flash before his eyes—something he did not want to waste time on, since he already knew what his life entailed—but he was in front of his flat's door, staring at the golden numbers on the face of it.

He pulled out the keys from his pant pocket. Mysteriously enough, he only had two keys: one for his flat door and—well, a man must always have a dying secret. Unlocking the door, he effortlessly pushed it open and found himself staring into his living room. He turned around, maybe wondering if someone was following him, but the hallway was empty—there were no other doors, just his. So he stepped right inside.

The door closed behind him, he placed the keys on the table next to it. Mycroft looked around—he knew where he was and what time in his life he was forced to be in. Looking at the kitchen counter, he saw the old cup he once shattered, perfectly in place, tea still inside. On the couch, there lay a jacket that he kept at the office until he stepped down due to his heart. Next to the doorway there were his shoes, still in a bit of disarray. Mycroft was certain that if he went to the bedroom, he'd see the closet wide open, the clothing he stashed away left in the vicinity.

Mycroft looked down at his own clothing. He was wearing the suit that he wore to the funeral. His hands were free from the wrinkles he once had from the suffering he endured while alive. But there were little specks of blood underneath the fingernails, some that he could not get rid of until a week later, when he took the time to scrub his hands clean (which tore some skin away at the time). He was back to the day of the funeral, the day when everything seemed to make little sense in his life.

This was his dream. This one insignificant activity going on in his head as he slept for almost twenty years—he had this dream a thousand times, maybe more. It was never any different, so why was he having it now? Was his afterlife going to be his own flat tormenting him, opening the same doors, still seeing the same things over and over again? He hated his death already.

Walking around the flat, he noticed how many things his partner owned, how many things he himself got rid of over the week being back at the flat. He remembered the first week, yes he did. Mycroft never slept. He barely had five hours of sleep that entire week, because there was some stubborn part of him that believed his partner was still alive. He would stay up late to look at cameras of the incident—there was his laptop on the coffee table next to the couch—and jump with hope at any noises in his building. But the door would never open, no one would ever knock.

Mycroft stared into the kitchen. He barely ate during that entire time, too. The only time he did eat was when Sherlock and John visited on the rare occurrences, and John forced him. Half of the food went back that week, but he couldn't step into the kitchen, not when that cup rested on top of the counter like that. It was one of the reasons why he both couldn't clean the cup and have the cup at all. Mycroft took a few steps away from the kitchen and stared down at the couch.

The jacket still rested there, still taunted him. After the first night of sleeping with the jacket, Mycroft decided to bring it to work the following week and leave it resting on one of the chairs that was almost always never used. He never wore it, but he always had moments of just staring at the jacket, hoping that his lover would call him and ask where it was (Mycroft always made it game between the two, so his partner would come to his office and spend time with Mycroft). Looking down at the couch, Mycroft tried to remember when he used it for the first time after the funeral, but he couldn't remember. It might've been years before he rested his back against the leather. It reminded him too much of the nights spent together (the first time he laid on his back on the couch, he could not help but cry).

He scanned the surroundings. It looked about the same when he left it that entire week. There were books to keep Mycroft occupied scattered around the table (but most of the stories were too tragic for his tastes—he needed to really get more horror stories), the chair full of papers that he used about the investigation. Ah, he remembered. The only good thing to come from that week was the arrest of the man that killed his partner. Mycroft had the pleasure of dealing with the criminal himself. He had never told a soul about what he did behind those closed doors, but his men had quite the clean up job.

Mycroft turned his head to look out the window, but the curtains were closed. Yes, he loved when they were closed. It kept him out of the public eye for a while. He turned around and finally came to the end of his dream. He stared at the bedroom door and walked over to the worn down thing. There were little scratches embedded into the door from things being thrown into it from all his life, as well as little markings he dared not think about (they were very private, and one must not share his private life).

He looked down at the golden doorknob that never lost its charm. This would be the point in time that he would reach for the doorknob, but he rested his forehead against the door. He knew what was behind the door. He always knew. Mycroft reached for the doorknob and felt its cold metal shock his palm. He sighed; it was never different. When he opened the bedroom door, he found himself staring at an empty room—again.

This time, it was light outside (he liked the curtains opened in the bedroom, however, as the little shadows that cast on the walls gave him comfort). You could see every crack in the walls, every bump that came to exist on the ceiling, and he saw the colors on the bed clash with one another. The breeze was still cool, the white curtains still moving about. He looked for something out of place, but there was nothing. It was the same room as his dream, the same room he's lived in for over twenty years. Mycroft looked down at the floorboards. Then, it all made sense.

Even in the afterlife, he'd be alone.

Mycroft wanted to fall to his knees. After all he had to go through, all the waiting he had to endure, he was still going to be so alone in this world, whether it was Hell or Heaven. He leaned against the doorframe and stared into the bedroom. He wondered if the view in the afterlife changed, or perhaps it was nothing but a white light. Maybe he did not need an umbrella, either, as it probably did not rain—though, a man could always use an umbrella. He shook the unnecessary thoughts away.

He was right, the closet doors were open, the clothing back to where it was before. The suits intermingled with the dress shirts, the ties snaking their way out from underneath the pants. He could see one of the shirts' cuffs sort of tucked away against a suits' cuff, the way he found the clothing when he came back from the funeral. He tore his eyes away from it and looked to the bed. Nothing was added, nothing was out of the ordinary. It was just him and the world, passing through space and time until eternity would suddenly give out. Or when God found it appropriate to bring him somewhere where he wasn't alone, where he was actually loved again, but he found that unlikely.

He brought his head back down to the floor underneath his feet, kicking at the small specks of dirt he never cared to clean in the real world. "Home," he whispered. He hated it now. He never wanted to step foot into this flat again, yet here he was, still stuck inside his little prison. He must've done something wrong in his life where he'd have to die in the place, then be stuck inside again. Plus, he was not used to the voice. It sounded terrible, but he sounded young again. He hadn't heard his voice like this in quite some time.

What was he going to do alone? He was sure there were a few books lying around the flat that he could pick up, perhaps there was some bookstore in the afterlife—oh, he didn't know. Eternal life, alone, he thought. It was a boring thought that seemed so empty. He tapped his fist against the bedroom door beside him. It seemed as though God would torment him more. He'd just have to live with it, he presumed.

_"Mycroft?"_ Mycroft froze. No, he thought. He did not want to have the voices in his afterlife, too. If he had to live through eternity, he would not survive to hear the voice again. This never happened in the dream. This was not going to happen. He looked up from the floor and into the bedroom again, pushing off of the doorframe. He looked to the left, and looked to the right, scanning every inch of the room, but it was empty. It was his mind playing tricks on him, a solitary thought running through his afterlife, teasing him for eternal life. Yes, he thought, this was Hell.

"Mycroft?" There it was again. But he couldn't find the location of the voice. Why? Was it just in the bedroom? The one place that he wanted to stay within, the walls that he thought he could trust—was it there that he could not escape to in the end? What kind of sick joke was this? Why was he being tormented? Why was God teasing him with this voice? Mycroft felt his hand ball into fists, wanting to kill anything and everything he could kill in the afterlife. More importantly, he wanted to kill whoever was doing this, whoever wanted to think it was okay to do something like this. Clenching his jaw shut, he turned away from the bedroom and back to the living room.

And when he turned, his fists were no more. His whole body was relaxed, his jaw slacked. Mycroft could feel his eyes widen, the heart in his chest—what heart beat in the afterlife?—hammering against his ribs. The tears were instantaneous, but he didn't know what emotion to trust, what emotion to hold onto and take with him. He hoped this was no joke. He hoped this was not his eyes playing tricks on him. Mycroft opened his mouth, whispering his name for the first time since his own death.

"Greg." Standing there in his perfect charm was his beloved, his one love in life. Mycroft looked Lestrade up and down. He looked the same he did when he died, save the wounds that brought him to his afterlife. He still had the darkened gray hair, still had those eyes Mycroft loved about him, still wore the same outfit that Mycroft grew fond of—he was still Lestrade, the man he fell in love with, the man with which he wanted to spend the rest of his life. When Mycroft blinked, a few tears fell down his cheeks, and Lestrade still stood there, with probably the same shocked expression Mycroft had on his own face. Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut a few times, making sure he was not being had, making sure God was not torturing him for damnation. But when he kept his eyes open, he saw Lestrade start to smile.

"Oh, Mycroft," he heard him whisper. Mycroft could hear the cracks in Lestrade's voice as he, too, started to cry. "Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft," with each name he spoke, Mycroft could hear him almost relieved at the fact that he could see him again, that he could let Mycroft hear his voice say his name. He almost forgot how Lestrade sounded, except how he said the name. And he still sounded perfect. Tears began to spring into Lestrade's eyes. "How long has it been?"

Mycroft figured the afterlife had no concept of time. "Long enough," he replied. Lestrade looked down to the floor, chuckling to himself. Mycroft felt his heart—still, he had a heart, it was very odd—flutter at the sound of the laugh. Then they met eye contact again, and Mycroft could've sworn he fell in love again.

Lestrade trembled out a smile, still breaking down from the emotions felt throughout his body. Mycroft wanted to smile, wanted to feel at ease again, but how could he trust his dream? What if it wasn't right? What if this was still the torment he had to go through with God? He heard the familiar clicking of Lestrade's shoes against the floorboard, creeping closer and closer to him. And when he was right in front of Mycroft, he could feel the small heat radiate off of Lestrade's body. Lestrade curled his fingers around Mycroft's hand, a feeling Mycroft dreamed to feel since the funeral. Nothing was wrong; everything had been right all along. "You're home." Mycroft couldn't take it anymore. He had enough of that from the life he lived without Lestrade around the last years of his life. He moved as quick as he could into the void and collided with his partner.

As he wrapped his arms around Lestrade, he still felt like, well, Lestrade. Mycroft buried his face in the crook of his neck and started to cry. "Greg," he whispered over and over again. His skin was still as soft as ever. Lestrade still smelled like the freshwater scent Mycroft gave him for Christmas one year—it was his favorite. It was the first time in over twenty years that he felt his love hold him in his arms, the first time that Mycroft could hold him back. No, he thought. This was Heaven. This was what he always wanted in the afterlife. Mycroft gripped the back of Lestrade's dress shirt and held on for whatever life he had now. He wanted to speak, and it was the first time he wanted to speak from the heart since the death of Lestrade. "Please, don't leave me again." His voice cracked and he sobbed into his lover's shoulder.

Lestrade held back just as strong. Mycroft could feel him defiantly shake his head, burying his head more into Mycroft's chest. "No," he whispered, "never again."

The two of them held each other tight, a bright white light illuminating the surroundings. And as the light shined brighter, the two of them breathed together again, taking them through the unknown, wherever they wished to be, right by the other's side. They were off to their slice of Heaven, somewhere far, far away. But before they disappeared forever, before they could be alone together, the light whispered their harmonious words longing to be expressed:

"I love you."


End file.
